and down rhythmically.
‘This is more important than his temper,’ Sir Roger growled. ‘I’m stuck through with an arrow and every moment wasted puts me one step closer to the grave!’
Arguably he was right, but Lucy bridled at his tone when the child was distressed.
‘He isn’t in a temper. He’s been woken from sleep and his room is full of strangers who are shouting. He’s confused and probably scared. On top of that he’s cutting teeth.’ She hugged him tighter and realised her hands were trembling. Robbie might be scared, but he was not alone in that. Now that something familiar from her life had intruded on the evening’s dreamlike events, she was most definitely frightened.
‘The quicker you put him back, the quieter he’ll be,’ Sir Roger insisted.
Lucy walked to the bed, still rocking Robbie against her chest, and stared down at him.
‘You clearly know nothing about children.’
‘Nor do I want to,’ he retorted with distaste, eyeing Robbie’s red face.
‘It will be easier to lay him down if he’s sleepy and calm,’ Lucy insisted. ‘Otherwise he’ll scream for hours and be clambering half-asleep into your bed a dozen times during the night.’
Sir Roger looked horrified at the prospect. Lucy glared back until he grimaced.
‘The dove has become a crow! Or perhaps an eagle defending her young. Do what you need to, but be speedy. And give me that bottle back. I need to dull the pain. Thomas, are you ready?’
Lucy gave Sir Roger the bottle, but instead of drinking it he splashed it on to his shoulder. He paled and swore, his chest lurching upward as the sharp liquor bathed the wound. Lucy winced in sympathy. The man was rude and crude, and whatever circumstance had led to him being shot was probably well deserved, but Lucy could not help but feel sorry at seeing him in such pain.
Thomas had been searching inside a large leather bag that he had brought inside with him. He crossed to Sir Roger and pushed a small bottle into his hand. Sir Roger took a swig. Thomas picked up the dagger Lucy had used and bent over the bed. He rolled Sir Roger on to his left side, straddled him and began to carve away at the shaft sticking through Sir Roger’s back to pare the feathers away.
‘Isn’t that child asleep yet?’ Sir Roger grumbled.
Lucy moved into the darkness to better settle Robbie. In a low voice she sang the song that usually settled him when she put him to bed and he yawned. She was surprised to hear the same tune whistled from across the room and stopped. Sir Roger was waving his left arm over the edge of the bed, his lips pursed.
‘You can sing me to sleep, if you wish, dove.’ He slapped his naked chest. ‘Right here against my heart. Or anywhere else you wish to lay your lips.’
Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.
Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.
‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’
Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’
Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.
* * *
Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.
Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.
‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.
‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’
Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.
‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’
Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’
What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.
‘She’s taking too long.’
He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.
‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.
‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.
‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’
Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’
‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.
‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.
If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.
He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.
‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’
He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She